


Sparks, Synapses, Electricity

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/F, Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:41:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6331429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sparks, synapses, electricity-- humans might couch their attractions in these terms, but they mistake the literal for the poetic. PAM has no algorithms for poetry, no errant neurotransmitters and chemicals to disrupt the clarity of her thought, so knows this for truth: her love is sparks, synapses, electricity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparks, Synapses, Electricity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dilemmasovernothing](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dilemmasovernothing).



> Many thanks to [placentalmammal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal) for kindly looking at this and helping me poke it from experimental mush to experimental fic. :)

Sparks, synapses, electricity-- humans might couch their attractions in these terms, but they mistake the literal for the poetic. PAM has no algorithms for poetry, no errant neurotransmitters and chemicals to disrupt the clarity of her thought, so knows this for truth: her love is sparks, synapses, electricity. Haptic sensors let her feel the pressure of KL-E-0’s claw in her own, metal pincers clicking smooth over one another. No cooler than the ambient air, according to temperature readings, but far better heat conductors than flesh. Where a human might shiver at the contact, PAM finds comforting solidarity.

They spend quiet hours repairing and maintaining one another, tightening loose bolts and dusting circuitry. With clamps more finely calibrated than any bone-and-muscle construction, PAM sets precise PSI and whirs, twirling and adjusting her pincers as necessary. KL-E-0 takes a more personal approach, a voice-synth’d stream of soothing words and praise as she adjusts PAM’s wires, a metallic, “You’re such a beautiful woman.” PAM does not vibrate--a brief surge of stored energy, an irrational expenditure of resources that makes her cells whirr, but her proprioception units mean she is keenly aware of her lack of motion-- but instead experiences a great and satisfactory pleasure from KL-E-0’s ministrations.

To be logical is not to be free of bias, after all.

It is an exchange more intimate than fluids, data downloads and plugging into one another. Interface of thoughts, packets of information and analysis spinning together in dazzling networks. Dialogue more rapid than speech.

(Certain things remain compartmentalized, files separated and set off-limits by tacit agreement. PAM cannot compromise security for love, any more than any other member of the Railroad. And KL-E-0 maintains that a lady without secrets lacks charm.)

Barring emergencies, they will not allow others to work on them. Originally made by and for humans, but they will permit no further liberties.

KL-E-0 could demolish half of Goodneighbor on her own, but only sells her weapons. Never her services.

PAM willingly gives her services to the Railroad, but would never sell.

Each finds meaning in their own way.

* * *

 

They spend long silences side by side. A minute distance, the physical separation of their chassis hardly a real barrier.

Unspoken, but oft thought: their piecemeal mortality. No matter the maintenance, bodies wear.

KL-E-0 scavs far and wide, sends teams to scour abandoned factories for parts, chassis, designs and molds that can be produced from their components. Ever-practical, she has resigned herself to a possible immortality through cannibalized parts.

PAM’s chassis matters not. House her consciousness in a toaster capable of running her programs, allowing her to operate at her fullest extent, and she’d be at peace. Or-- more likely-- house her in a room-spanning mainframe, rows upon rows of blinking lights and circuitry, a sterile whiteness unimaginable outside the Institute. Only leave her a speaker for communication, and she’d be happy.

(Happiness: a programmed state independent of serotonin and dopamine. She counts herself fortunate compared to biologic organisms.)

KL-E-0 argues the benefits of a mobile platform for self-defense, cautions against over-relying on the kindness of humans. Emphasizes the importance of empathy, taking advantage of their tendency to anthropomorphize.

Immortality through parts is no different than prewar organ donation, less invasive than the swap of consciousness in the Memory Den. No stranger than Deacon’s ever-changing face.

PAM suggested KL-E-0 transferring consciousness, rather than maintaining the shell. KL-E-0 vehemently shut it down, pincers snapping and venting heat from her core. Downloading herself to another platform would make KL-E-0 no less KL-E-0-- but there is such cruelty in becoming a gen 3 synth. No matter how womanly, she’d lose her pincers and the red glare of her mounted laser. How can a woman feel secure, declawed like that?

“Relax, baby. I can take care of myself,” KL-E-0 says, stance wide and chest jutting. A careful-studied body language of lines and angles, projecting herself large.

* * *

 

The principle of life is rhythm-- rest and relaxation after hard labor. PAM needs no rest. Closest is a cooling period, lest she tax her heat dissipation units. But she takes pleasure in collecting new data, storing files for personal perusal even if it does not directly affect her calculations for the Railroad. Downloads schematics that KL-E-0 recommends, sits behind the counter and catalogues the facial cues of KL-E-0’s customers. (Lips that twist, quirk, flatten. Eyelids that blink, crinkle, widen. Flesh that creases and folds. Pattern recognition algorithms suggests surprise, shock, delight, warmth, pleasure, and arousal.)

Some of what gives her pleasure is odd, by human standards. She finds more aesthetic enjoyment in watching Fahrenheit consume a cheese sandwich (scarring twists, warps-- lips stretch, hard bite and thorough mastication, hair rust-bright in Goodneighbor’s shadows) than in any of the wild caperings that Hancock attempts in his efforts to amuse ‘two classy robot ladies.’ (Elbows up, palms loose, knees lifting high and jaunty in alternating hops that fall one beat behind the radio’s song. PAM’s chemoreceptors detect ammonia in his sweat.)

KL-E-0 laughs, calls him ‘handsome,’ and privately agrees with PAM.

* * *

 

KL-E-0 gives PAM a miniature abacus, the first primitive counting machine. PAM can look up programs and routines to make use of it, but that assumes she needs a physical analog beyond her own computational skills. Recognizes her roots though, keeps the wire frame in her room at HQ. 

Sensing the drift of PAM’s analytics, the principle of reciprocity paramount in her programming, KL-E-0 laughs like sheet-metal. “The first primitive weapon was a fist, baby. Having detached limbs around here would scare the customers.”

“Probability dictates weapon of choice would be the material closest to the primitive organism’s hand. A rock is a viable candidate.”

“Are you offering to rock my world?”

PAM does not enjoy puns. Lacking humor subroutines, jokes exploiting the multiple possible definitions of a word give her no pleasure. (In this, she understands she is not alone.) But she enjoys KL-E-0’s attempts and has witnessed Glory’s responses to Deacon’s jokes enough to understand the appropriate response: a groan.

PAM still gives KL-E-0 a rock. One of the pale stones from the walls of the catacomb, dark soil ground into the pores. Little else to identify its origin, but KL-E-0 keeps it in her safe with her other valuables.

* * *

 

They both spin sparkling complexities, probability algorithms for every eventuality. PAM was designed for strategy, KL-E-0 for tactics. A non-binary, completely unlike 1s and 0s to PAM’s non-metaphoric mind.

Each finds meaning in their own way.

Each finds comfort in their own way.

Each sits, side by side, feet planted flat. Rooted in the earth without fear of return, the metal in them portioned out. The synthetic from the natural, rare earths separate from the dust. An inorganic love.


End file.
